


It Was The Start

by rednihilist



Series: We're Not Our Fathers 'Verse [2]
Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Angst, Drama, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which JD and Tim might just stumble across the right path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was The Start

**Author's Note:**

> 'Friday Night Lights' and certain characters belong to NBC Universal, Peter Berg et al. No profit is gained from this writing -- only, hopefully, enjoyment.
> 
> Set during/after Season Three, Episode 11: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall. Branches away from canon following the Taylors' jump into the McCoy family drama outside Applebee's, and my previous story, "You Know What That Was."

He'd always done as he was told, always, and it used to be he'd done so because that's what was smartest, easiest, best all around. His dad knew, and he didn't. His trainers, teachers, coaches, they all knew what to do, better than JD himself did, and it would've been just plain stupid not to follow directions and take advantage of their combined experience and advice. So JD got up when his dad told him to, went to training and worked out like he was told to, went to school and aced all the classes he was told to, went to practice and did what the coach told him to, ate only what he was told to, studied when he was told to, and then got into his bed and went to sleep when he was told to. He did well; he was the best. It wasn't always fun, and it wasn't always easy, but JD did it, did it all, and he took pride in the fact that he was disciplined and hardworking and god damn it he was _the best_ , and that was because he followed directions.

But then things changed, and where before it had made sense to do what he was told, suddenly it stopped making sense. Suddenly, what his dad told him to do wasn't making him the best, no matter how hard he tried, and it was _never_ fun and anything but easy. Suddenly, JD was outside after supper, having been told to swim laps until he couldn't swim any more, and soon 'after supper' became 'before supper.' Suddenly, it was 15 more minutes of training in the mornings, then 30, then another hour, and JD was being shaken awake at four in the morning every day. Suddenly, he was lucky to even see his mother during the week, or to have five minutes on the computer that wasn't to do with homework, or even a moment alone that wasn't him sleeping or showering. Suddenly, JD realized that he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, or watched a movie, or had any friends. He couldn't remember when football had been fun, or when he wasn't tired.

Suddenly, in the locker room one day, JD had realized he wasn't the best, not really. Saracen and Riggins had been joking and laughing hysterically at something one of the other guys on the team was doing, and JD had watched and watched and just. . .

He hadn't wanted to go home, or train after eating another stupid meal that tasted like nothing, and in the morning, JD hadn't wanted to wake up. He hadn't wanted to do as he was told. He'd wanted to be over there laughing and joking and making an ass of himself too, but he couldn't.

"One-Two?" a voice had called out, and Riggins had been grinning at him, and for the longest time JD was jealous of him because Riggins _never_ did as he was told and he seemed to always be laughing and always having fun and he was _the best on the team_.

He remembered actually thinking that if he could just get his head back in the right place then everything would make sense again. If he kept on doing as he was told, then eventually it'd turn out right. So he did. But it didn't. It got worse, in fact, and soon _nothing_ was right.

So then JD tried picking and choosing, deciding what was working and keeping on with that, and figuring out what wasn't and stopping it. That helped, and JD talked to Riggins and they had fun, and he made a joke that Saracen and the other guys on the team laughed at, and he helped his mom stuff some envelopes full of something or other, and he ate popcorn, and he flirted with a girl who always blushed when he looked at her. JD felt good again, and he knew it was because he'd taken charge and decided for himself what was best, what was needed. He was 15 years old, after all. It made sense that he'd have more responsibility now than he'd had when he was just a kid.

Then one night, JD made the decision to listen to what Coach told him to do, instead of doing as his father had said. And JD was right because Coach was right. They won the game and were in the play-offs, heading to State, and JD was feeling the best he had in a long time.

And then it slipped away because he hadn't been right because his dad was right and even though they won JD shouldn't do that, shouldn't go against what his dad said, shouldn't, and suddenly what was best was a punch in the face and then another and then his dad shaking, shaking, shaking him while Mom cried and screamed like JD had never heard before.

And at first, JD even tried to play all that off as being for the best too, in order to make him the best, to-- to make him stronger, to know when not to disagree, when to simply do as he was fucking told.

But then his mom looked at him as his dad started walking away, and then Coach looked at him, and Coach's wife, and JD knew. He _knew_. _He_ knew the truth. His dad was wrong, had been wrong for awhile, and everything was-- everything was gone. He couldn't trust his dad, couldn't do as he said because his dad was wrong, and, before, JD hadn't been able to tell, so what if someday he did do as his dad said again and it turned out his dad was wrong, _again_ , but JD wouldn't know until it was too late because he hadn't known this time.

He hadn't been able to tell. No one had. How could anybody trust anybody when they knew that person could be wrong? How could JD trust anybody? How did he know who to follow and who not to?

But. . . his mom, right? Even though she'd believed Dad too, surely she knew what was best still, and if she-- if she didn't. . .

Suddenly Coach was right there, and his wife, and JD had trusted Coach before and been proven right in doing so, so trusting him now was smart. JD did what Coach Taylor said to, and he wasn't wrong, not later when the shock had worn off and JD and his mom were at the Taylors, not even soon after that when Coach waved Riggins over to the patio table and left the two of them alone. JD had been wrong before, and his dad was wrong, but so far Coach wasn't, hadn't been, so JD did as Coach said and stayed outside with Riggins on the Taylors' patio.

And soon JD knew Coach hadn't been wrong in this case, either, because Riggins knew too, not what was best, but what was wrong. Riggins, _Tim_ , he didn't know when to follow, or do as he was told really, but when _not_ to. Tim, JD realized, wasn't someone he should believe in, not like Coach was, but Tim was someone JD _wanted_ to believe in. And he didn't need to be jealous of Tim because it turned out-- turned out, they were pretty damn similar. And JD could learn from him because he figured Tim was just trying to find someone to believe, too. He'd been wrong before too, it seemed -- and like JD had, with his own family. So JD took some comfort in the fact that he wasn't alone. He could follow Tim until they both found someone to believe, and maybe that someone _would be_ Coach Taylor.

Tim had told him there on the Taylors' patio, said it plain as day, "You can trust Coach. He's a-- he's the best." He'd said, looking JD right in the eyes, "You can trust him. . . and, uh, you can trust me, too." That was it. Not much to go on really, not much, just a few sentences, and Tim never came right out and explicitly said he and his own dad didn't get along, but after that night JD knew what to look for. He'd already kind of wondered, honestly, because Tim didn't live with his parents and yet no one seemed to mind. And Tim had some weird reactions to things, more so than the other guys. And when JD came into the locker room the Monday after. . . everything, Tim was waiting right by his locker. Tim was early, must've gotten there before last period, even, because he was all suited and padded up. As JD went over and opened his locker, the other guys shot him funny looks and he could hear them whispering to one another, but then when JD took off his shirt and started to change, the whispering abruptly stopped, and when he looked up it was because Tim was standing there glaring at everyone. And no one said a word about what had happened in the parking lot with JD and his dad, even though everybody in the whole town and beyond had to know about it. No one made any jokes about it, either, not to JD, and he knew it was because of _Tim_.

Tim had helped him out, and he'd given JD that tour of the town a month or so back, and ever since the-- what had happened in the parking lot, JD and his mom had been staying at the hotel, but every morning Tim showed up to give JD a ride to school. And all the guys were being nice to him, even Saracen who didn't really have a reason to be. Tim did all that. He did that for _him_ , for JD alone.

The hotel had a gym, and of course a pool, so JD went ahead and kept up with his training. The season was almost over, but it still mattered. It was just another way to stay ahead, to be the best, to try to be anyway. He and his mom even had separate but adjoining rooms, so JD took that as a sign, a hint, and set his alarm for four every morning to go work out. Then, while his mom was off talking to lawyers and various people late in the afternoons and early in the evenings, JD went down to the pool to swim and tread water until he couldn't anymore. It was like before, only now it was JD telling himself to do it, to get up and stay up and to just keep moving. He was the one doing the ordering, not his dad or his trainer. JD told JD.

It felt weird though, not right, off somehow. He didn't feel free or grown up at all. Instead, he was more lost now than he'd ever been before. It was like never waking up and never going to sleep, like stasis. They played games and won them, and JD threw completion after completion and ran the ball over 40 yards one time for a touchdown and yet it was like he never did any of it really. He just worked out in the gym, lived out of a suitcase his mom and Mrs. Taylor had packed for him. JD just swam and swam and he never stopped. He treaded water for weeks, for a month. He kept his head just above the surface and every second was a struggle not to slip under.

But then suddenly the alarm was going off and JD wasn't getting up. He knew what to do; he just couldn't do it. He couldn't get up, couldn't move. The noise just kept going and going, and JD wasn't moving. His mom came in, asked him what was going on, and he couldn't answer. She started to get worried, turned on the light and felt his forehead, asked him repeatedly, "JD, what is it? Honey? What's wrong? What is it?"

And nothing moved inside him. He couldn't answer. His eyes shut, and they opened again, and again, and again, but it wasn't JD doing it. He wasn't the one in charge. He just. . . couldn't, anymore. He'd tried and it hadn't worked. And now everything was gone again because JD couldn't do it. He just couldn't keep it up.

He couldn't keep himself up, couldn't swim anymore, and no matter the fact that his mom was crying, JD's eyes closed and it felt like he couldn't get them open again.

***

It was loud, really loud, but in a distant, disconnected kind of way. There was shouting, and several raised voices, and crying, lots of crying, and loud knocking, and heavy footsteps. Hands touched him, shook him, once, even slapped him hard across the face.

Later, he'd be told that it was a nervous breakdown, and understandable really, what, with all the stress he must have been feeling due to his parents' divorce. Later, he'd be shepherded into bi-weekly therapy sessions with a woman who had to have been a hippie in the 60s if she wasn't still one today and who repeatedly told him he was "an empathetic and sensitive soul" and that it was "simply a natural state of being" for him to be essentially a complete pussy who freaked out about stupid things and had weird moments where he couldn't seem to remember how to breathe properly. Later, he'd be given anti-anxiety and anti-depression medication, and every night for the next two weeks he'd take them in front of his mom, just so she'd see with her own eyes that he was. . . okay.

The facts are, though, that he's not even aware of what's happening for most of it. He's awake, and his eyes are open because they feel really dry later on when he blinks, but he doesn't. . .

His mom evidently calls Mrs. T, who's Coach's wife and also the principal of the school and who's been kind of obnoxious lately in always asking him how he's doing and how he's holding up and if there's anything he or his mom need. Mrs. Taylor comes over, and he thinks he can remember her touching his hair and his cheek, but he isn't positive. It's all blurry, fragmented, like a fever dream or some stupid movie he'd seen so long ago that now he can't remember the correct sequence of events.

He thinks it must have been later that Coach was there, and then after that that Tim came in and sat down beside him. There's lots of talking, and it's bright, too bright, and he knows that at one point he was afraid everyone's voice would be burned up by the sunlight, but he doesn't know exactly what was said by exactly which person. There's a lot of talk about fathers and football, and he feels so absolutely sick and tired of both that he's pretty sure he was crying there for a bit out of sheer frustration and contempt. But there's also pleading, and plenty of promises, and low rumblings, and small sounds in the back of throats that make him realize what a bad worthless stupid selfish boy he is for causing all this trouble.

He's in a hotel shower at one point, and doesn't know if it's his room's or his mom's or even the same hotel in the same town in the same state in the same country on the same planet. It's bright and cold and he can't breathe and a set of familiar hands and arms are holding him up and gently washing him off, and there's that deep rumbling sound of someone talking but he can't make out the words and--

He tries to bury himself and not breathe because it just hurts so much and what is he supposed to do now, please, please, please, and all he gets is shaken around and the warmth taken off his face and he's dragged and pulled and pushed and slapped and shaken some more and no one listens to a word he says because he can't open his mouth and he can't hear them and there's no goddamn point anyway.

The truth is, he's warm -- hot, even -- and his nose itches and there's whispering right by his ear and muffled yelling farther away, and he feels the desperate urge to reach over to his right and say, _'It's okay. You're not alone.'_

" . . . but, you know how it is, right? 'Course you do. Keep your head down; think about other stuff, or nothin' at all. Put it all out there on the field, just empty yourself out, right? And it's like, when I do that, when I do exactly what I'm supposed to do, and we score and everybody cheers and smiles, that's when I'm. . . me. That's who I want to be, you know? That guy who gets it right, who never fucks up, who nobody knows or remembers nothing about, just: _'he made that play. Watch him run.'_ Not, _'heard he did this. Saw him do that. Someone told me this, and everybody knows all about that.'_ "

The whispering stops, replaced by a heavy sigh, and then the hand around his is squeezing slightly and there's movement along the bed, like another hand is fidgeting with the bedspread, smoothing it out repeatedly.

"I don't know, man," and it's more whispering, but the yelling from the other room, from his mom's room, has died down.

But Tim's still here with him, still sitting next to him and _holding his hand_ of all things.

"I used to wish for a lot of stuff, you know," Tim whispers suddenly, and even as breathy and quiet as his voice is, it still cracks. "I wanted a big house with two of everything, so me and my best friend could be-- could be fuckin' twins. Pretty stupid, huh?" And Tim makes a little huffing, snorting kind of noise, but it isn't actually funny at all, and it's not stupid either.

"And a dog. I wanted a dog so bad, man! You wouldn't believe how hard I tried to get one -- just kept asking, even when-- when I got into trouble, you know, for asking for stupid shit. But then, soon as I thought they'd forgot, I'd wait till one of 'em was in a good mood, you know, smiling and buying us crappy presents and trying to make dinner and, like, cleaning the house, and _then_ \-- then, I'd ask for that dog again. Or, I'd try and sneak one home. Tried with a few strays, you know. Stole some bologna and made a little trail and they'd follow, but then-- "

Suddenly, Tim stops talking, and his hand goes still around JD's, and so it's natural to just turn his head on the pillow and look over.

Tim's right there looking back at him, and it's really quiet in this room, but there are still voices talking next door, and suddenly JD's pretty sure that any second now Tim's going to yank his hand back and pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened here at all.

"Did you ever get that dog?" JD asks, and his voice is too loud and too rough and his eyes and head hurt and he's all achy like he's got the flu or something.

"Not yet," Tim answers, and his hand's still there, only now it's tighter around JD's own. He's still staring really intensely, looking right into JD's eyes, and then he says, "Someday, I will, though. I'll get him when I've got my own place, when-- " And here Tim swallows quickly, before continuing. "I won't need anyone's permission. Soon. I'm going to get some place that's just mine, you know?"

JD smiles a little sadly. "Going to get two of everything?" And it's not until after he's said it that he realizes what a monumental mistake that was, what an assholish thing to say. "I-- I'm sorry," he quickly attempts. "I didn't mean it like that-- "

But Tim just quirks his lips a little to the side, a slight twist, and it's a little bitter and a whole lot sad, but he doesn't seem angry at all. And JD thinks he's played enough games with Tim to know what he looks like when he's pissed off. The guy isn't subtle.

"Nah, I know," Tim quietly reassures him, and again he squeezes JD's hand, and only then does JD even remember that they're still holding hands. Then, Tim's breathing out another one of those deep gusty sighs and saying, "Think that ship's sailed, though." He shakes his head a little, trying to get the hair out of his face, it looks like, and then just sits there and resumes staring silently at JD.

So JD turns his head away again, and, as he's lying on his back on the bed, he just looks up at the ceiling for awhile, silent too.

And still holding Tim's hand.

"I wish for stuff too," he finds himself saying later, and by that point they're not huddled close or even touching, but JD can still feel more than see Tim's encouraging nod.

"Someday, we'll get it," Tim tells him later. "We're gonna be okay, One-Two." He pauses and then out of the blue lets loose with a chuckle JD only realizes after the fact is pretty damn bitter and cynical. "Can't get much worse, after all," Tim says, and JD thinks things _could_ actually, _knows_ they could, but he's got a feeling now, deep in his bones, and it's hard to describe so at first he doesn't even try to.

But then much later, when Laurie, his hippie therapist, asks him about what happened the day he had his "breakdown," JD just says the first thing that comes to mind and that's when he realizes he's known the truth for awhile.

"I was just lost," JD tells her.

"And did you find your way?" she asks, when he doesn't immediately continue.

"No, but between the two of us I think we can."

 

 


End file.
